Conversation with a Gargoyle
by kamikaze-djali
Summary: Quasimodo has an in-depth conversation with an inanimate hunk of stone. Disney's HoND. Please R & R.


*Wrote this on a whim about two years ago. No violence, only Quasimodo. It may not make sense to some, since it's only the thoughts of Quasimodo in the presence of an inanimate hunk of stone.  
  
Conversation with a Gargoyle  
  
Why are things the way they are? Look at them down there, they middle about their daily business, scattering about the square as if insects or chittering birds. They're ignorant of everything that goes on around them, they seem blind. That lady there, you watch her every day, does she ever do anything but scurry from one side of the square to the other? To have that; freedom to go anywhere you please, and never taking the chance. To let that pass! To toss it away as if it meant nothing! If she only knew.  
  
Oh. I forgot, you're only made of stone. Stone can't talk, can it. Master has told me that many times, I suppose he's right. It's only the sunstone. You can't talk, your mouth is closed, I've never seen it open. I can see you have ears, therefore you can listen to me. You're the only one who will listen to me. You don't run, either, for you have no legs. You would if you could, wouldn't you? You would run.  
  
Did you know Master left me another book this morning? It's Greek this time, the last one was Latin. What do you suppose it's like to be on a ship at sea? Would the sirens call out to me like they did Jason? Likely no, there would be no point since Big Marie. Then again, I will never be sure, will I? No, I won't. Do you suppose they sing as sweetly as the gypsy girl down there? I can't hear her, t'is true, but I watch her. See how she dances? She's lovely; I don't see how she could possibly be evil. You know, I've watched her grow from a child, she's about the same age I am. She used to play the flute, now she dances. She dances every morning, she's always happy out there in the sun.  
  
Master tells me gypsies are evil. Do you believe it too? Master said my mother was a gypsy, she abandoned me on the steps in the dead of winter to die because I am so ugly. That would make me a gypsy as well, therefore I must be evil. I don't look like a gypsy, do I? Oh no, far from it. You would know for sure though, wouldn't you; you were there. It's your secret. Did my gypsy mother really leave me to die on those steps? Why didn't she throw me into the icy river instead?  
  
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Look at them down there, those gypsies. I can't possibly be one of them. They're so dark, so tall and graceful, and look at me. No, don't look at me. Oh, if Master ever knew I thought such things, I would surely suffer for it. But you won't tell, will you. You can't, you have no voice. You only have ears.  
  
Master is displeased with me, you know. I was to write out some psalms in Greek yesterday afternoon. I wrote them out of course, then began to write my own words. Don't worry, I've hidden them carefully, they will not be found. I began to wonder, is it by fate alone that I'm forever to remain behind these sacred walls? Has God set no greater purpose for me than to summon his people? I know, it is not proper to question the Lords' doing, but still I wonder. A monster such as myself. Is it really fate? I carved the word into one of the stones, Master saw it that evening. Yes, my shoulder is still sore, but these lines will heal in with the others in time.  
  
Yes, Master left me another book this morning. I've noticed him cursing books lately. Apparently most people have never read a book, they don't know how. He's mentioned that will soon change because of some machine that makes books. This displeases him greatly, yet I cannot imagine why; every day he stresses how important it is that I learn Latin, Greek and Anglais. What does it matter if I know? What difference does it make? I'm forbidden from ever leaving Notre Dame, I've been downstairs only at night. I've yet to meet anyone besides him, the Archdeacon and you. You are the only one I've really talked to, and you're made of stone. You have no voice, you can't speak to me; you're all I have.  
  
Were I made of stone, life would be easier. You're never sad, you never cry. You just stay where you are and watch what happens below you. What do I do that's so different? I ring the bells, 'tis true, but someone rang them before me, someone will ring them after me as well. Other than that, all I do is watch what I can never be a part of. No one would miss me if I were gone, no one knows I exist. Do you believe they know? It is possible, isn't it. Those people, they do a lot of talking. Surely the gypsies know, it is they who left me here to die.  
  
Then again, to be frozen and unable to move would surely be horrid. The thought of having others look at you and jeer, not being able to hide from them. I know what it's like; I've hidden before. Many times, in fact. The number of nights my prayers have been interrupted due to a beggar or gypsy claiming sanctuary. It's not that I mind, sanctuary is for all. It is the rule that I shall not be seen. Why must it be so? I ring the bells, clean the cloisters, light candles, secure the doors at night, open them in the morning; the Archdeacon sees me as a part of the church , yet I remain a ghost,  
  
Dear friend, I'm sure if only one of those people were to meet me, see past my face and into my soul, there would be no need to hide anymore. The monks don't run from me at all, they remain silent only because they've been ordered by Master not to converse with me.  
  
Do you suppose that's all it would take? Just one. Then I could be free. Oh, but Master would never approve. The risk is too great. I suppose he's right, too. The mob loses control very easily, if one were to turn against me, any chance of living out there would be lost forever. They would hate and scorn, they would throw things and beat me. A monster. You and I, we're brothers.  
  
Yes, Master left me another book this morning. I've not read it before, it's in Greek . I thumbed through the pages, they're very plain. The letters are fancy, but not nearly as beautifully decorated as the last one. Saw an image of a winged horse sprouting from the headless body of a snake- woman, on the next page a man was riding the horse into the sky. To have wings, to be able to fly would be wonderful. One day my friend, someday, I'll get my own wings.  
  
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